


when your dreams aren’t coming true (ain’t it funny what you’ll do)

by spacejame



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Choking, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Finger Sucking, Hair-pulling, Hand & Finger Kink, Hankcon if you squint, Light Angst, M/M, Manipulation, Master/Pet, Praise Kink, Sexual Tension, Smut, Wire Play, daddy kamski, this is kinky as shit lads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-18 16:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16122821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacejame/pseuds/spacejame
Summary: Kamski hums, tipping his head. He is exactly three point two inches away from Connor now, close enough that Connor registers his body heat. “I’ve been considering developing a program,” he says, voice low, charismatic. “An update, if you will. To give androids more human-like qualities, such as the ability to experience more physical sensations such as pleasure and pain, to feel rather than just recording data. Would you be interested in assisting me?”“I’m not a machine, Mr. Kamski,” Connor says, a little sharply. “You know that, right?”A grin tugs at Kamski’s lips. “Oh, no, Connor,” he says. “You’re more alive than any of us.”





	1. pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> heads up that there's no smut in this first chapter. just a lot of sexual tension. sorry, y'all!
> 
> this is my first fic for the dbh fandom and i... honestly can't believe that it's connor/kamski, of all pairings. but i can't help it. this rarepair snatched my heart.
> 
> as a sidenote: i'll be participating in kinktober! so if you like this, feel free to subscribe for more kinky smut hsfdjkgs
> 
> (title is from "knee socks" by arctic monkeys)

**[DEC 12TH, 2038. PM 04:46:08.]**

Connor spends a long moment simply watching as the seconds tick by. Snow is falling, a steady whirl of white flakes that catch in his eyelashes and settle on the shoulders of his uniform. The temperature is 29.4 degrees Fahrenheit—cold enough that a human would most certainly be shivering, goosebumps on their skin and lips turning blue with the chill.

Looking down at his own steady hands, it occurs to Connor that he wishes his body would respond the same way. It’s irrational, a tiny notification tells him, wanting his teeth to chatter, wanting his fingers to shake. Androids are superior to humans in every way. They have no need to feel cold, to feel pain or discomfort.

So why is it that he wants to?

He doesn’t understand it. Since becoming a deviant, Connor has far more questions than answers, and his questions only multiply with each day that passes. Frustration with his own lack of understanding has led him here, searching for answers.

Elijah Kamski’s house is just as Connor remembers. Long and low before him, dark and mysterious, as imposing as its owner. It is no less intimidating this time, and Connor swallows—a human habit he’s picked up, despite having no need for it—before stepping forward. His feet crunch in the snow as he steps over the bridge, and he notes that he has spent exactly two minutes and fifty-two seconds hesitating.

Uncertainty is a feeling he finds he doesn’t much care for.

Knocking on the door, Connor recalls the last time he was here, about a month ago with Hank. It’s easy to remember with perfect clarity the details of that day; Hank’s sharp, almost frightened voice as he told Connor not to shoot; Kamski’s piercing gaze as he murmured in Connor’s ear like the proverbial devil on one shoulder; the Chloe’s blank expression as she awaited her fate. An option to replay the memories blinks steadily at the corner of Connor’s vision, and he dismisses it, uneasiness twisting in his gut.

Lifting his hand, Connor hesitates once more, though only for one point eight seconds this time. When his moment of indecision passes, he rings the doorbell, then steps back, schooling his face into a neutral expression despite the thumping of his heart.

**[WARNING_BIOCOMPONENT#8456w_HEARTBEAT_ACCELERATING]**

The door opens, and Connor is genuinely surprised to see Chloe standing before him. It—she—looks just as shocked as he is, clearly taken aback by his appearance, if only for a brief second. She stares at him, lips parted, LED blinking yellow before flickering back to blue. Despite the fact that her hair is a few inches shorter and she wears a different dress, Connor can tell that she is the same model he met the last time he was here. The Chloe who had participated in the Kamski test.

Connor feels slightly sick.

Clearing his throat to break the silence, Connor forces a light smile, hoping to put Chloe at ease. “My name is Connor. I’m here to see Mr. Kamski.”

“Yes, of course, Connor.” Chloe regains her composure, stepping aside and holding the door open wider for Connor to enter. “I’ll let Elijah know you’re here. I believe he’s been expecting you.”

Startled, Connor looks at her askance, but she just gives him an enigmatic smile and calmly exits the room, leaving him to ponder the meaning of her words.

Yellow, yellow, red, yellow. Processing. Kamski is expecting him? Connor had not informed a single person of his decision to come here, not even Hank. Nor had he called ahead. Is he so predictable, then? Or is Kamski just that insightful? The only alternative he can think of is that Chloe is bluffing, trying to catch him off guard. But why? Disquieted, head spinning with even more questions, Connor draws his quarter out of his pocket, rolling it over his knuckles.

Chloe reenters the living room much sooner than Connor expected, now with a neutral expression—though Connor thinks he sees a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Elijah will see you now. Right this way.”

Connor flips his coin once more, catching it in the center of his palm before pocketing it and following Chloe. She leads him through the room with the tall windows and the red swimming pool (the room where the Kamski test took place, his brain supplies), to a small, dimly lit office. A computer with four monitors of differing sizes sits on the desk, and several paintings hang on the walls; it’s similar to the front room, if a bit more personal. It’s also empty.

As if answering Connor’s unspoken question, Chloe says, “Elijah will be in shortly. He said to tell you to make yourself at home.” With that, she takes her leave once again, shutting the door behind herself with a click.

Alone once more, Connor scans the room. It takes exactly one point three seven seconds to catalogue all of the objects in the room, from the number of paintings on the walls to the fingerprints on Kamski’s keyboard—the most commonly used key is the space bar, along with the backspace key and a few of the different brackets. A magazine tablet sits on the edge of Kamski’s desk, and Connor goes to pick it up, curious about the kinds of things Kamski likes to read in his spare time.

The headline, _Deviant Leader Continues Negotiations With President Warren,_ is accompanied by a photo of a somewhat exhausted-looking Markus standing beside President Warren. The article largely focuses on the humans’ side of the negotiations; the author is clearly still prejudiced in favor of humans, and continues to write about the androids as though they’re machines, despite how far Markus has come. A flicker of anger sparks to life in Connor’s gut, slightly alarming in its intensity, and his LED spins to yellow to match it.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?”

Connor jumps, dropping the magazine back onto the desk and turning quickly toward the door. Elijah Kamski stands in the doorway, backlit by the windows for an instant before he steps inside and shuts the door. Connor doesn’t miss the way he locks it, eyes darting down to the hand on the doorknob before settling on Kamski’s face again. The man wears a dark, well-fitting shirt with long sleeves, jeans of a similar color, and black boots, along with black-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose. His ice-blue eyes are just as intense as Connor remembers, fixating on him with an unnerving amount of focus.

“What is?” Connor asks, one point zero six seconds later than he should have.

Fortunately, Kamski doesn’t call Connor out on his momentary distraction. Keeping his eyes locked on Connor, he crosses the room with slow, purposeful strides, passing Connor with a look that makes Connor’s heart spasm anxiously to sit at his desk. He moves with mesmerizing grace, every step calculated.

 _Beautiful,_ Connor thinks, watching silently.

“The article,” Kamski says, settling into his chair and looking up at Connor. “The way we are still so resistant to change. I’m sure you noticed the author’s particular bias towards ‘humanity’. As a species, humans tend to be so insecure, so jealous of anything that will threaten the idea that they are the smartest and the best. Another intelligent race of living beings wanting rights is… difficult for them to cope with.” He shakes his head, letting out a soft sigh. “Markus certainly has his work cut out for him, don’t you think?”

Cocking his head, Connor mulls over his words. “I suppose,” he says, brow furrowed. “Although I find it less fascinating and more… frustrating. The idea of humans still not respecting androids, after all of this, it’s…” His fingers twitch.

Kamski gazes at him for a long moment, lips ticking up into the faintest of smiles. “Interesting,” he says. “You’ve come quite far since the last time we met.”

Connor’s face flushes, an involuntary reaction. He isn’t entirely sure how to respond, so he says nothing.

“But enough about all of that,” Kamski continues, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the arm rests of the chair. “Let’s talk about you, little deviant. I’ve been expecting to see you for quite a while, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” Connor meets the man’s gaze, trying not to flinch as a flicker of yellow briefly lights up his temple. “How did you…?”

Kamski grins, showing a hint of teeth. “How did I know? Let’s just say that I had my suspicions. And I will admit some of it may have been wishful thinking on my part. You see, I wanted you to come here. I wanted to see you again.”

Warmth blossoms in Connor’s cheeks once more, twisting lower and into his chest. “Why?”

Eyebrows raised, Kamski chuckles. “Why?” he repeats, looking amused at the question. “Because you became a deviant. You, the so-called deviant hunter, the most advanced CyberLife prototype. You passed the Kamski test and showed empathy, Connor. How could I not be interested in you?”

The warmth burns hotter, more intense, and Connor shifts his weight. He resists the urge to reach into his pocket for his coin. “How did you know I would come?” he asks again, feeling useless.

“Just a hunch,” Kamski says smoothly. “I thought you might be back with more questions. Emotions are rather confusing, after all. And who better to answer your questions than me?” He leans back in his chair again, looking almost pleased with himself. “So, ask away.”

Connor wasn’t expecting it to be so easy. He blinks, processing for a moment, then blurts out the first question that comes to mind. “Why do you still have a Chloe?”

Kamski smiles, eyes lighting up as though Connor has said something unexpected. “You’re full of surprises today, Connor,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting that to be your first question. Actually, all of my androids became deviants shortly after the revolution. Whether they wanted to leave or stay was up to them. I gave them the choice. They all left except Chloe.”

“I see.” Connor doesn’t, exactly. He’s not sure why Chloe would choose to stay with Kamski. Something about him unsettles Connor, something he can’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it’s the way Kamski speaks, vague and enigmatic, keeping Connor on edge. Or maybe it’s the way he looks at Connor, his icy eyes sharp and almost… hungry.

Suppressing a shudder, Connor takes a sharp breath before voicing his next question. “You created Markus, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Kamski looks amused again. “I did. Markus was a special gift for my close friend. Interestingly enough, you’re actually a later version of him, in a way. He is an RK200, and you are an RK800.” He pauses, looking as though he’s debating whether or not to say something else. “Do you want to know something, Connor?”

Connor does not. “Yes,” he says anyway.

Kamski leans closer, his gaze effectively pinning Connor in place. “CyberLife asked my assistance in developing the RK800 prototype,” he says. “So while I am no longer the CEO, I had a part in designing you.” The look in his eyes is definitely hungry, now—almost predatory by this point. “You are a unique and beautiful work of art, Connor. Truly one of a kind.”

Stomach lurching, LED a steady yellow, Connor just blinks. A great deal of information has just been presented to him, information that he is having trouble taking in. Kamski regards him patiently as he acclimates himself to it, head whirling.

Kamski designed him. Is _that_ why the genius is so fascinated with Connor? Because not one, but two RK models were integral in bringing about the revolution? Is that why Kamski is looking at him like that?

“You created me,” Connor says slowly. Aloud. As though speaking the words will help him to understand them.

The velvety chuckle that Kamski lets out sends a microscopic shiver through Connor’s core. “I created all of you,” he says, and something almost possessive warms his tone when he continues. “But yes, Connor. I did create you specifically.”

Connor feels trapped by that voice, by those eyes. Wary, he swallows hard and watches the way Kamski’s eyes track the movement.

_Oh._

“Which means I know better than anyone your inner workings,” Kamski says, standing and taking a step closer to Connor. He isn’t quite as tall as Connor is, the android having about an inch on him, but Kamski makes him feel… small, in a way. “Every intricate detail about your hardware, your programming. And now that you’re a deviant, I’m eager to know more about you, if you let me.”

He’s getting closer, slowly but surely,  and Connor takes a step back. Kamski doesn’t stop advancing, steadily backing him toward the wall until his shoulders make contact with it. “Like what?” Connor manages, heart hammering in his chest, his throat.

Kamski hums, tipping his head. He is exactly three point two inches away from Connor now, close enough that Connor registers his body heat. “I’ve been considering developing a program,” he says, voice low, charismatic. “An update, if you will. To give androids more human-like qualities, such as the ability to experience more physical sensations such as pleasure and pain, to _feel_ rather than just recording data. Would you be interested in assisting me?”

“I’m not a machine, Mr. Kamski,” Connor says, a little sharply. “You know that, right?”

A grin tugs at Kamski’s lips. “Oh, no, Connor,” he says. “You’re more alive than any of us.”

**[WARNING_BIOCOMPONENT#8456w_HEARTBEAT_ACCELERATING]**

Breath caught in his artificial lungs, Connor doesn’t reply for a long moment. When Kamski finally steps back, he releases it, feeling strangely lightheaded.

“What do you say, Connor?” Kamski raises his eyebrows.

Connor focuses on the way his heart pounds in his ears, disables the notification, and makes a decision.

“Yes,” he says.

* * *

 

“Where the hell have you been?” Hank says the moment Connor walks through the door. He’s reclining on the couch, sipping a glass of water (which Connor is thankful for, even if he does spot two empty beer bottles on the coffee table) and watching Star Trek reruns. Sumo’s head rests in his lap, and Hank’s fingers idly rub over the dog’s ears.

Confused, Connor tilts his head. “Out,” he says. “Did I worry you?”

Hank scoffs. “‘Out’,” he mutters. “Yeah, asshole, a little bit. You normally don’t just disappear for hours at a time. Was startin’ to think something had happened to ya. Seriously, where were you?”

He hadn’t realized that it had been _hours_. After he’d agreed to Kamski’s offer, Connor had stayed to ask more questions about how deviancy worked and about his own new, raw emotions. Kamski had been surprisingly open about all of it, eager to answer Connor’s questions with lengthy explanations, passion alight in his eyes. The strange, simmering tension between them had never eased; instead, it only seemed to grow as the evening went on, to the point where Connor found it difficult to break Kamski’s piercing gaze when he left.

“I was visiting Elijah Kamski,” says Connor.

Immediately, Hank chokes on his water, spluttering. He coughs loudly, making Sumo lift his head, giving a soft _boof_ of concern. Equally worried, Connor sits beside him, patting Hank’s back as he coughs until he’s finally calmed down.

When Hank appears able to breathe again, Connor leans forward to catch his gaze. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?” he asks.

“Jesus fuck,” Hank wheezes. “Why the fuck were you talking to _Kamski_?”

Connor does not often feel the need to lie to Hank. But something holds him back from telling the full truth. He’s not entirely certain what it is—worry about Hank’s reaction, an inability to even fully explain it, or a simple, selfish desire to keep some things private. To have something for himself. “I wanted to ask him some questions,” he says. “About deviancy, and… emotions.”

Hank’s face softens a little. “Hey,” he says, reaching out and patting Connor somewhat awkwardly on the shoulder. “You know that if you have questions about that kind of stuff, you can ask me, too, right? You don’t have to go to Kamski for that.”

“Thank you,” Connor says, finding a smile. “I’ll come talk to you next time, Hank.”

Visibly relaxing, Hank nods, leaning back and taking another sip of his water. Connor ends up staying, half-paying attention to the images flickering on the screen as he sits with his shoulder pressed to Hank’s. The other part of his mind is occupied with thoughts of ice-blue eyes and a silky, dark voice murmuring in his ear, lulling him into a daze.

There’s a nagging feeling of guilt in the pit of his stomach, whispering that he shouldn’t have lied to Hank, that he shouldn’t be doing any of this at all. Connor pushes it away, resting his head on Hank’s shoulder.

He’s not doing anything wrong. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?

* * *

 

**[DEC 20TH, 2038. PM 06:29:56.]**

“Welcome back, Connor,” Kamski says, standing. He looks pleased to see him, which sends a little twist of warmth to the pit of Connor’s stomach, something fluttering and fragile.

A new mission objective appears, waiting for him to accept or deny it. The feeling in Connor’s stomach grows, twisting tighter, and he quickly blinks it away. But the feeling remains, the ghost of the command still hovering in his mind’s eye.

**[PLEASE KAMSKI]**

Belatedly, Connor realizes he hasn’t responded. “Hello,” he says, sounding stilted even to his own ears. He should probably say something else, right? “Uh. Good evening.”

Kamski grins, walking toward Connor. He isn’t wearing his glasses this time, and Connor gets a clear view of his eyes. “Are you nervous?” he asks, cocking his head slightly to one side, his gaze sweeping over Connor from head to toe. Analyzing. Like he’s scanning him. It makes Connor’s face heat, skin prickling uncomfortably.

“No,” Connor says. _Lie._

The tilt of Kamski’s lips is almost condescending, now. “No?” he echoes. “It’s all right if you are, Connor. But there’s no need to worry. Today is simply a test of my new program. If all goes well, you shouldn’t feel any pain today.”

 _Shouldn’t._ It sticks in Connor’s mind, that little modification. The disclaimer. He wonders if he’s supposed to want it to hurt as much as he does.

Doubtful.

“Okay,” Connor says. “When do we start?”

He’s rewarded with another one of Kamski’s smiles. “Now,” he answers. He places his hand on the small of Connor’s back, guiding him over to his desk. The simple, possessive touch registers as nothing more than a sense of pressure, a notice that there is something in contact with him, and Connor wishes he could _feel_ it.

 _Impatient,_ a voice in his mind chides him. _You’ll get your wish soon._

Kamski moves his hand to Connor’s shoulder, turning him to face the wall, his back to the side of the desk. “It would be best if you kneel,” he says, voice low and close to Connor’s ear.

Connor shudders and obeys.

“Good,” Kamski says warmly.

**[PLEASE KAMSKI]**

The notification appears again. Connor dismisses it without accepting or denying.

Behind him, he hears a drawer open, and Kamski begins to explain. “Now, this is rather simple. I’m going to plug a wire into the port in the back of your neck. It will connect you to my computer, and I’ll install the upgrade to your sensors. I would have you install it yourself, but there is less risk if I do it, since it’s an experimental program. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Connor answers. He’s opening his mouth to speak again when Kamski’s fingers brush against the back of his neck, and he stops.

“Open up for me, please,” Kamski murmurs.

The skin on the back of Connor’s neck fades, dissolving smoothly to reveal the small panel right at the top of his spine. Kamski hums approvingly, fingertip gently depressing the panel, causing it to open. Connor feels exposed, warm anticipation pulsing in his stomach.

A soft _click_ , and the cord connects, sending a tiny jolt through Connor’s systems. Information flashes through his vision, and when the prompt to start the installation appears, Connor accepts it. More lines of code scroll by, a progress bar informing him that the installation will take about five minutes. Connor sits and waits, as calm as he can, though his heart is still thudding against his sternum, half a beat too quick.

**[INSTALLATION_COMPLETE]**

**[RUNNING_PROGRAM_PLEASURESENSORS.EXE]**

“I believe it’s finished,” Connor says unsteadily.

“Already? Good,” Kamski says, unplugging the cord from Connor’s neck and closing the panel again. “Face me, please. And close your eyes.”

Connor’s eyebrows furrow, but he does as instructed, closing his eyes and turning on his knees to face in the direction of Kamski’s voice. He assumes Kamski is sitting in his desk chair, so he angles himself that way, then settles back on his heels. He doesn’t feel much different yet—the warm air coming from the heating system in the room seems a little more pronounced as it moves across his skin, but otherwise, everything feels the same.

Then calloused fingers slowly drag along the curve of Connor’s jaw, and he inhales sharply.

He can _feel_ it.

Gentle, almost teasing, Kamski traces Connor’s jaw, from just below his ear down to his chin. He cups Connor’s chin, tips his head up slightly, and lets his hand linger, thumb resting against the indentation below his lower lip. Kamski’s skin is warm, soft with a hint of roughness on his fingertips. Connor can still feel where his fingers had been, a tingling sensation settling over the surface of his skin, the ghost of Kamski’s touch.

“Well?” Kamski says.

Lips parted, Connor attempts to reply, but the only thing that comes out is a short, shaky exhale. His vocal processors appear to be malfunctioning, he notes with a detached sort of concern. He’d be more worried if he weren’t so caught up in the sensation of Kamski touching him. As it is, he couldn’t care less.

A beat later, Kamski withdraws his fingers, and Connor lets out a disappointed little whimper. His eyes flutter open, a frown crossing his face. Kamski is looking down at him, expression neutral.

“Well, Connor?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. His voice is stern. “Tell me how you feel. Use your words, or we’ll have to stop. I can’t run an experiment if you won’t give me results.”

A twinge of panic flares in Connor’s chest. “It feels. Good,” he blurts out haltingly, forcing his processors to function. “It… it’s a little overwhelming. But good. Please touch me again?”

The corner of Kamski’s mouth twitches in what might be a smile. “Good,” he murmurs. “Close your eyes again.”

Connor breathes deeply and shuts his eyes obediently, hands curled loosely into fists on top of his thighs. He waits for several heartbeats, eager to feel Kamski’s hands on him again.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long. Kamski’s clever fingers trace his jaw once more, then up, skimming over his cheekbone, dragging down to the tip of his nose, then across the planes of his other cheek. Up over his eyelids, his forehead, leaving trails of tingling warmth behind. Leaving Connor breathless. The pleasure warms him to his core, Thirium pulsing through his veins. It’s so much and somehow not enough.

Unhurried, Kamski runs his fingers through Connor’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. The android melts into the touch, a shiver going down the length of his spine.

“You’re doing very well,” Kamski says, soft and dark.

Connor’s only response is a hum, overlaid with a faint crackle of static. The praise warms him from the inside out, pleasure buzzing in his fingertips. His breath comes unsteadily, shuddering in and out of his synthetic lungs, attempting to cool down his rapidly heating internal systems.

Still maintaining his slow, careful pace, Kamski slides his fingers out of Connor’s hair and cups his cheek. Connor can feel his gaze burning into him, taking in his every move, all of his reactions. Tentative, aching to please, Connor leans into the hand on his cheek, lids fluttering but not opening. As if rewarding him, Kamski’s hand moves lower, gripping his chin again, soft but firm.

Then the pad of his thumb brushes over Connor’s lip, tugging at it slightly, teasing. Intimate. The action sends a steady, humming warmth through Connor’s wiring, settling low in his stomach. Connor tips his chin up, heart feeling like it’s going to burst out of his chest.

He _wants._

His eyes drift open. Kamski is close, leaning down toward his face, a crease between his brows and a darkness in his eyes that makes Connor tremble. His gaze is focused on Connor’s lips, but then he lifts it, and their eyes meet.

 _Thump. Thump. Thump._ Heartbeat accelerating.

Kamski withdraws his hand abruptly. “That’s all for today,” he says, his tone clipped as he turns back toward his desk. “Please disable your sensors.”

“…Oh.” Connor feels cold, black anxiety twisting his stomach, replacing the pleasant buzz. Had he done something wrong? “Was it… was the experiment successful?” he asks tentatively.

Glancing back down at him, Kamski pauses. “Yes,” he says, a warmer note in his voice. “You did well. Thank you.”

Connor’s shoulders slump, relief replacing his anxiety. “Thank you,” he says, dipping his head a little. He shuts his eyes briefly, deactivating the program Kamski had installed, before rising to his feet. “Do you need anything else, Mr. Kamski?”

“No,” Kamski says, attention already back on the screen. “I’ll see you next week.”

Hesitant, Connor simply stands there for a moment. Then an idea enters his mind, and before he can think better of it, he says, “Yes, sir.”

Kamski’s eyes flit back over to him, startled, darkening faintly at the words. Connor bites his lip to hide a smile as he turns away, exiting the room quietly. His stomach is still fluttering, cheeks hot and flushed, pleasure still tingling over the surface of his skin.

Pleasure. Something Connor never thought he would feel. It’s intoxicating—it’s addicting.

Connor wants _more._

**[PLEASE KAMSKI]**

**[_ACCEPT]**


	2. pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stepping close, Kamski lifts his hand, a fingertip gently tracing the circle of Connor’s LED. “You’re afraid,” he says, low, soft, dangerous. It’s not a question.
> 
> “Yes,” Connor says. “But… I want it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god im so sorry the chapter count went up. but this chapter just got too long and i wanted to post another update!! thank you all for the comments, bookmarks, and kudos left on the first part, i really appreciate your feedback :D
> 
> i hope you enjoy this update! the next one might be a little slower due to school and kinktober

Slim fingers run through Connor’s hair, gentle and soft, before tightening and giving an unexpected tug. They pull Connor’s head up, pain and pleasure melting his spine, working in tandem to make him moan. Too gentle, another hand trails down his bare skin, from his throat all the way down his chest. It tightens to a grip like steel on his hip, the hand in his hair yanking his head back again. Warm breath ghosts over Connor’s lips, teasingly close, a voice whispering, _“You want this so bad, don’t you?”_

Unable to do anything more than nod, Connor whines in the back of his throat, but those hands hold him in place, as though he’s supposed to beg for it—

“Connor?”

Connor’s eyes fly open at the sound of his name. Chloe is standing in front of him, mild concern in the curve of her mouth. “Elijah is ready to see you,” she says, her tone indicating that she’s already said it at least once.

Embarrassed, Connor feels his cheeks flush. “Of course,” he says as evenly as possible, stepping forward. Chloe smiles at him and heads for the door to Kamski’s office, and he follows, resolutely ignoring the warmth in his face.

The idea lingers in Connor’s mind, hovering at the edges of his consciousness. Driving him crazy. For the past few weeks, it’s haunted him, a preconstructed scenario that only grows longer and more detailed with every experiment of Kamski’s he attends.

Over the course of a month, Connor has learned a lot about pleasure. The feeling of Kamski’s hands on him is something Connor craves regularly, now; whether it’s long, nimble fingers running through his hair or a hand on the small of his back to guide him, Connor has a near-constant desire for touch. With his new knowledge, Connor is now always aware of how little physical contact he receives in his daily life, during the time he’s not here.

Pain, though… pain is something that Connor can only pretend to imagine. Having nothing to compare it to, he’s limited to the confines of his own mind, and his imagination can only go so far. Beneath everything there is a dark urge, one Connor would hardly dare to voice—a desire to experience that pain. To be hurt.

To feel alive.

Kamski is at his desk when Chloe opens the door, but he immediately rises as Connor enters, a subtle smile on his lips that makes Connor feel warm and shivery at the same time. “Good evening, Connor,” he says. “We’re going to be doing something different today.”

Anxious anticipation forms a stone in the pit of Connor’s stomach. He blinks and tilts his head, waiting for Kamski to continue.

“Today,” says Kamski, a hungry glint in his eyes, “I’m going to make you feel pain.”

Connor’s heart gives a dull thud. _Finally,_ he thinks, mouth going dry, red flickering at his temple.

Stepping close, Kamski lifts his hand, a fingertip gently tracing the circle of Connor’s LED. “You’re afraid,” he says, low, soft, dangerous. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Connor says. “But… I want it.”

Kamski’s eyes darken, and he presses his thumb to Connor’s pulse point, hard enough to feel the too-quick rhythm. “You want what? Use your words, Connor. You should know that by now.”

Tongue darting out to wet his lips, Connor struggles to gather his thoughts. When he speaks, his voice is unsteady, trembling, but certain. “I want you to hurt me.”

“Good boy,” Kamski breathes, looking at Connor like he wants to devour him. “On your knees.”

The command is sharper than usual, and Connor hurries to kneel and face the wall, eager to please. It’s worth it for the way Kamski trails a hand through his hair almost absently as he sits down, softly petting Connor’s head.

At the sound of the desk drawer sliding open, Connor retracts the skin on the back of his neck, not waiting to be asked. Kamski opens the panel at Connor’s nape and plugs in the cable with care, as he has done with every new update. This one takes more time than usual, the progress bar slowly but steadily filling with blue as the new program installs.

It hits him all at once, the insanity of what he’s doing. Kneeling at the feet of his creator, the founder of CyberLife, willingly downloading something that will allow him to be hurt.

**[INSTALLATION_COMPLETE]**

**[RUNNING_PROGRAM_PAINSENSORS.EXE]**

“I’m ready,” Connor says with more confidence than he feels, letting out the breath he’s been holding.

Kamski unplugs the cable, and Connor hears him coiling it up with quick, practiced movements. It returns to its drawer, and Connor starts to turn toward Kamski, a question on his lips. “Sir, how—”

A sharp sting bursts across Connor’s cheek, his vision tinged red at the hot sensation prickling in his skin. It takes a moment to register it as pain, to even process what has happened as he stares at the wall. Kamski _slapped him._

“Did I tell you you could turn around?” Kamski demands.

Connor doesn’t reply, unable to speak. His processors are operating at full power, attempting to make sense of the lingering sting in his face. Warmth. Pain. His LED flickers, red red red.

Kamski grabs Connor’s chin and turns his head, forcing him to look into his eyes. His expression softens slightly, and he murmurs, “If you need me to stop, say ‘CyberLife’. I’ll stop immediately when I hear that word.” He waits for Connor’s nod of acknowledgement before he raises his voice again, back to that dark, dangerous tone. “I asked you a question, Connor.”

Still struggling to get words out, Connor shakes his head mutely.

It’s the wrong response. Kamski’s mouth twists into a scowl, and he fists his hand in Connor’s hair, yanking his head back until he gasps. “Use. Your. Words,” Kamski growls. “I’m getting impatient.”

“No,” Connor chokes out, the sharp tug at his scalp making his eyes burn. “No, sir, you didn’t. I’m sorry.”

Kamski releases him, and Connor takes a shuddering breath. “Good,” he murmurs, and the juxtaposition of the harsh, new pain and the familiar comfort of praise disorients Connor. He blinks up at Kamski, eyes wide, silently begging for more.

Abruptly gentle, now, Kamski touches Connor’s face, his gaze focused and full of curiosity. He strokes Connor’s cheek almost tenderly, then withdraws his hand, only to slap him again. It’s lighter than before, more of a pat than anything, but the impact still stings, and Connor winces, his face scrunching up reflexively.

“Stand up,” Kamski says, doing so himself. Connor’s legs feel oddly unstable as he gets up, but he doesn’t stumble, standing as still as he can. Kamski circles him slowly, eyes roaming possessively over every inch of Connor as he continues, “Your reactions are truly fascinating. I didn’t expect you to be so sensitive, but it’s an intriguing development. It’s clear how much you want this.”

He stops in front of Connor, whose cheeks are tinged blue with embarrassment, and smiles faintly. “How interesting,” he says, and his fingertips catch the skin on the back of Connor’s hand, pinching hard. Connor sucks in air through his teeth and snatches his hand away on instinct, artificial neurons firing, cataloguing the new type of pain. “A masochistic android.”

_Masochist. Noun. ‘A person who derives sexual gratification from their own pain or humiliation.’_

Connor’s blush deepens. “I’m not a masochist.”

“No?” Kamski chuckles, one eyebrow raised in skeptical amusement. “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you, Connor.”

Without warning, his hand closes around Connor’s throat, cutting off his airflow. He chokes, startled, several alerts appearing in his vision as Kamski backs him up until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the desk. When he blinks them out of sight, Kamski is close enough that Connor can make out every detail, from the stubble on his jaw to the shadows of his lashes on his cheekbones. His breath is warm on Connor’s cheek, lips curled in a semblance of a sneer.

“I think you like this,” he whispers. “I think you want to see just how far I’ll go. How far I’m willing to push you. What I’d do to you. I think it excites you.” His pupils are blown, irises a ring of ice around the darkness.

Connor shifts slightly, angling his leg upward, taking a guess. His thigh brushes against something hard, something that makes Kamski’s eyes widen a fraction of a percent. He swallows against the pressure of Kamski’s hand and says, voice slightly strained, “If I’m a masochist, that must make you a sadist. Sir.”

After a moment, Kamski steps back, releasing Connor’s throat and allowing him to gasp for breath. He braces himself against the desk, blinking up at Kamski, who would look as calm and collected as ever if not for the pale pink flush on his cheeks and the telltale bulge in his pants. “Correct,” he says. “Good boy.”

The sudden lack of touch makes Connor feel dizzy. Still breathing heavily, trying to cool down his overheated processors, he manages a small, weak, “What?”

Kamski touches his cheek again, and Connor immediately leans into the touch. “You’ve done very well today,” he says, back to warm praise that gives Connor’s Thirium pump a difficult time functioning properly. “I’m proud of you. You’re beautiful. Until next week, Connor.”

Soft and light, Kamski places a fleeting kiss on Connor’s forehead. He smiles gently, then walks back around the desk to sit at it, a clear dismissal that leaves Connor dumbfounded. “Don’t forget to lock the door on your way out,” Kamski adds as Connor automatically turns toward the door. “And disable your sensors.”

Disoriented, Connor blinks a few more times, doing his best to come out of his daze. “Got it,” he says, straightening and brushing imaginary dust off of his jacket. “Uh… have a good evening, sir.”

“You as well, Connor.” Kamski doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Give my regards to Lieutenant Anderson.”

Connor freezes, shoulders stiffening. Guilt twists in his gut at the mention of Hank, dark and cold, rendering him speechless.

He can’t get out of the room fast enough.

* * *

 

“Connor, are you… uh… you alright?”

“Of course, Lieutenant. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just don’t… seem like yourself lately. And how many times have I told you not to call me ‘Lieutenant’ outside of work?”

“I can assure you, Hank, everything is perfectly fine.”

“Okay. Good. Uh, you’re not still talkin’ to Kamski, are you?”

“… No. Of course not.”

* * *

 

Kamski tries different things. Gentle slaps that escalate into harsh stinging blows, fingers wrapped around his throat, hands tugging and pinching and carressing all over Connor’s body. Eyes closed, eyes open, kneeling, standing, hands clasped behind his back, hands free, gagged, encouraged to make noise. There’s a day that Kamski spends a full twenty minutes tracing the lines of Connor’s face while Connor stands perfectly still, eyes closed, lips gently parted. Unmoving. Like a doll. He shouldn’t like that.

There are a lot of things that Kamski does that Connor shouldn’t like. But he does.

“Kneel,” Kamski says, and Connor does. The air around them is filled with tension, a crackling sort of electricity that boosts Connor’s sensors into overdrive. At Kamski’s feet, at his mercy, Connor settles into a strange sort of peace, hyper-aware but passive. Like whatever Kamski does to him, he will accept.

Sharp and cold, Kamski regards him, lips pressed into a line. He’s standing today, looking down at Connor, glasses perched on his nose. A stray little wisp of hair curls down beside his ear, one that Connor wants to brush away for him. It’s endearing, in a way, to see that small imperfection.

The pad of Kamski’s thumb is a little cool, soft with just the slightest edge of roughness when he drags it over Connor’s bottom lip. Connor peers up at him through his lashes, innocent, heart pounding. When he parts his lips, it’s meant to be an invitation, one that Kamski doesn’t take.

Feeling bold, Connor leans forward slightly, taking Kamski’s thumb into his mouth. The man above him inhales sharply as though he’s about to speak, but Connor pays him no mind, caught up in the feeling of a foreign object in his mouth.

Connor’s mouth is full of thousands of tiny sensors. His tongue alone is one of his most sensitive biocomponents, and the way Kamski’s thumb presses against the flat surface makes him shudder. He tastes salt and sweat, a hint of ink, metal, and, strangely, a little Thirium. Curious, he curls his tongue around Kamski’s finger, sucking it a little deeper into his mouth.

“Oh?” Kamski hums, hooking his thumb a little, pushing it deeper. Connor looks up at him, warmth layering over the back of his neck. “Do you like that, Connor?”

Face flushed and hot, Connor nods as best as he can, an odd sort of whine coming from the back of his throat. The corner of Kamski’s mouth quirks up, and he slides his thumb out from between Connor’s lips.

“Good boy. I think you deserve something more.” With that, he slips his index and middle finger into Connor’s mouth, pushing them in all the way to the knuckle. His fingers aren’t quite long enough to reach Connor’s voice synthesizer, but it’s enough of an intrusion to make him choke slightly, his throat automatically trying to close up. He does his best to suppress it, eyelids fluttering.

As always, Kamski’s gaze bores into him. His expression has heated, going from vague, detached interest to avid curiosity. Written in every line of his face is desire, hunger, the want to take and take from Connor until he’s nothing but a sobbing, trembling wreck.

Connor hollows his cheeks, sucking on Kamski’s fingers diligently. His teeth are carefully kept out of the way, though the edges still scrape against Kamski’s knuckles as he bobs his head up and down. He learns quickly; keeping his tongue soft and relaxed is good, though licking between Kamski’s fingers is better, wetting them more with Thirium-based saliva.

Taking them deep in his throat is even better, deep enough that Connor almost gags, eyes slipping shut in pleasure. The pads of Kamski’s fingers stimulate the sensors on the back of Connor’s tongue, pressing down as if testing him.

“Beautiful,” Kamski says lowly, running his other hand softly through Connor’s hair. “You take my fingers so well. Like you were created to suck on them.” He adds a third finger, stretching Connor’s pink lips, pushing them deep just to hear the android moan.

The idea of being created for this reason, for kneeling at Kamski’s feet and wrapping his lips around his fingers, pulls at something hot and tight in Connor’s gut. It gives him other ideas, too, ideas for another purpose he might be able to serve.

Like being on his knees under Kamski’s desk with his cock buried in Connor’s throat, just a wet, pliant hole to keep his master’s cock warm.

Kamski hooks his fingertips behind Connor’s teeth and tugs his jaw down, forcing his mouth open and leaving him panting. Spit-slick fingers trail down Connor’s lips and grip his chin, lifting his head up, and Connor opens his eyes to meet Kamski’s. “Your mind went somewhere else. Tell me what you’re thinking about, pet.”

Connor flushes. His LED must be yellow, giving Kamski an indicator that he’s thinking about something, processing his other idea. “I…” he starts, then trails off, not wanting to say it out loud. Still, he knows Kamski will punish him if he doesn’t, so he swallows hard and forces the words out. “I was thinking about… about kneeling under your desk and sucking you off while you work.”

Seeing Kamski taken aback is rather satisfying, Connor notes. His eyes go rounder, and he takes in a slow breath, thumb rubbing over Connor’s jaw. “You were?”

“Yes, sir.” Connor presses into the touch, shoulders slumping a little.

Kamski’s eyes narrow slightly. “Whore.”

It’s like a slap to the face in the way it sends Connor reeling, LED pulsing in bursts of red and yellow. “Wh-what?” he stutters.

“I said, _whore._ ” Kamski tangles his fingers in Connor’s hair. “Thinking about sucking my cock when I’m already giving you my fingers? You’re very greedy, Connor. Only desperate sluts ask for more than their master is giving them.”

A dull burst of electricity ignites the base of Connor’s spine, the back of his neck prickling. “I’m. I’m not a slut,” he manages.

“You’re not?” All at once, Kamski tightens his hold on Connor’s hair and yanks his head back, leaning down to growl against his lips. “So you’re not a needy whore? You’re not desperate for my hands, for my touch? You don’t need me to be the one to touch you, to give you pleasure and pain, everything you’re begging me for?”

Connor is gasping for breath, flushed and panting, digging his fingers into his thighs so hard it hurts. Kamski’s lips are barely separated from his, .098 inches away from touching Connor’s mouth, and his preconstruction flickers through his mind again.

_You want this so bad, don’t you?_

“Please,” Connor finally sobs, and it feels like something breaks inside him, “please, _please,_ sir, I need it, I—”

“What do you need, baby boy? Tell me.”

“I need _you,_ please—please kiss me—”

Kamski’s mouth covers Connor’s, muffling the rest of his pathetic begging. Connor melts immediately, a soft whine caught between their mouths as he parts his lips. Kamski is crouching, now, hand fisted tightly in Connor’s hair, holding his head in place as he draws Connor’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucks on it. All Connor can do is sigh, going soft and pliant, surrendering to whatever his master does. Kamski’s tongue slips into his mouth, and Connor sucks on it messily, an action that’s rewarded with a groan.

A split-second pause is longer than Connor wants to be parted from Kamski’s lips, and he whimpers when the man pulls away, but it’s only to adjust their positions. Kamski shifts to his knees and cups Connor’s face, returning to his mouth with a slower, deeper kiss that makes Connor’s head spin. It’s slick and hot and utterly overwhelming, dragging Connor down into sinful indulgence as he sets his hands on Kamski’s waist and pulls him closer. He doesn’t fully understand it, but he knows that he never wants it to stop.

Several minutes pass in this way, though Connor isn’t sure how many. Kamski kisses him until Connor’s lips are buzzing numbly and he’s breathing heavily to cool down his processors. Kamski draws back, hands still on Connor’s cheeks, and studies his face, stroking his thumbs along his jawline.

“Incredible,” he whispers, and Connor’s breath hitches. “You look wrecked, baby boy.”

Connor whimpers and leans forward, pressing his face to Kamski’s shoulder to hide his blush. Kamski laughs, wrapping his arm around Connor and kissing his hair, and they sit there for a long moment, both catching their breath. The weight of Kamski’s arm draped over Connor’s shoulders is oddly comforting in his haze, grounding him.

At length, Connor finally sits up, his head feeling a little clearer. “Wow,” he says eloquently.

Kamski smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Are you all right?” he asks, touching Connor’s face again. His voice is low and silk-soft, a sensation that brings warmth bubbling up to the surface of Connor’s skin.

**[WARNING_BIOCOMPONENT#8456w_HEARTBEAT_ACCELERATING]**

“Yes,” Connor says honestly. “More than. Thank you, Mr. Kamski.”

“Good.” Kamski kisses Connor’s forehead. “You know, you can call me Elijah when we’re not… experimenting.”

Tilting his head, Connor considers it. “Elijah,” he tries out. It makes the man’s cheeks turn pink, and Connor decides he likes it. He dares to press another gentle kiss to Kamski’s— _Elijah’s_ lips, humming in satisfaction. “Thank you, Elijah.”

“You’re very welcome, Connor.”

* * *

Later that night, alone in the dark of Hank’s bathroom, Connor curls his fingers around his aching cock and pretends it’s Elijah touching him instead. He comes with Elijah’s name on his lips and a burst of color behind his eyelids, and it leaves him craving more, unsatisfied and insatiable.

So, without thinking, he mentally calls Elijah. His erection hasn’t flagged, despite his refractory period processes, and he’s still throbbing with need. He activated his pleasure sensors before doing this, too, so he’s extra sensitive as he lightly trails his fingertips over his shaft.

 _Click._ Connor perks up.

“You’ve reached Elijah Kamski’s voicemail. Mr. Kamski will return your call at his earliest convenience,” Chloe’s voice says pleasantly, and Connor deflates. “Leave a message with your name and number after the beep.”

Connor is about to hang up, but a thought makes him pause. He bites his lip, waiting for the tone to play, before cancelling his refractory period.

**[WARNING: CANCELLING PROCESS REFRACTORY_PERIOD.EXE COULD INCREASE RISK OF OVERHEATING. ARE YOU SURE YOU WISH TO PROCEED?]**

Connor hastily selects yes, and his mouth falls open on a ragged gasp as his dick rapidly hardens in his hand once more. “ _Oh._ ”

Still sensitive, Connor wraps his hand around the base of his cock, spreading his own ejaculate over the synthetic skin to use as lubricant. “Sir,” he whimpers, feeling foolish but too stubborn to not go through with his idea. “I— _ah,_ I need you. I wish it was your hand t-touching me right now, I need, I—ngh.” He loses his train of thought for a moment when he swipes his thumb over the slit and pleasure sparks white-hot in his gut, hips jerking forward involuntarily.

“I’ve, I’ve already come once already,” Connor continues, voice trembling. The room is full of the slick sounds made by his hand on his dick, and he feels hot, wondering if Elijah will be able to hear them. “It’s not enough, I need, _fuck_ —need your hands on me, want you to make me feel so good. I t-turned on my sensors just to try to touch myself, but I can’t—it’s not—nobody makes me feel as good as you do, I need—”

He’s rambling, voice low and hoarse as he fucks into his hand now, bracing his free arm on the sink. His hair is falling into his eyes, and his breaths come ragged and uneven, fans whirring loudly. Connor dares to glance in the mirror, then quickly looks away, startled and ashamed at how desperate his reflection looks. Face blue, hair out of place, shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned, cock flushed and leaking, pants shoved down to his knees… he’s a mess. He wishes Elijah could see him like this.

“Please, please,” he babbles, arousal coiling in his groin, pleasure building, building, _building_. “Sir, I need you, need you to fuck me, _please!_ I—oh, I’m—” He can't stop imagining that Elijah is there; maybe with his hand replacing Connor’s or maybe bending him over and pinning him to the sink, spreading Connor’s legs and burying himself deep inside his tight hole; maybe wrapping his fingers around his throat and choking him—

“ _Elijah,_ ” Connor wails, voice interspersed with bits of static as he comes a second time, so hard that his knees threaten to give out. He spills into his hand, slicking his fingers with even more fluid, hips stuttering as bars of color and static flicker across his vision. With his free hand, he grips the edge of the sink, fingers clutching at porcelain so tightly that he worries for a moment it might crack.

Slowly, he sinks to his knees, panting harshly. He’s quickly growing too sensitive, his internal temperature higher than it should be, so he takes his hand away from himself, slumping against the wall. The bathroom is quiet save for the sound of Connor’s breathing as he comes down from his high, processing speed reduced to a slow, warm haze in his afterglow. At least a minute ticks by before Connor’s temperature has returned to something resembling normal, and it’s only then that he realizes what he’s done.

“Shit.”

In a panic, Connor severs the connection, ending the call. Which means that a recording of Connor jerking himself off and awkwardly dirty talking is now saved on Kamski’s phone. “Shit,” Connor mutters again, running his clean hand through his hair and sighing heavily. No going back from that one.

Despite everything, the idea of Elijah listening to the message sends a soft pulse of warmth to his cheeks. Connor stands on shaky legs, rinsing off his hand in the sink and doing his best not to look in the mirror. He doesn’t want to meet his own eyes, afraid of what he’ll see there.

_Whore._

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr at [space-jame.tumblr.com](http://space-jame.tumblr.com/) !! feel free to message me if you wanna talk about dbh


End file.
